Pulling Teeth

Week One Hundred and Sixty-Five - Blessed Sacrament (Fort Mitchell) 

4:00 Saturday afternoon mass, Blessed Sacrament.  If I were to live in Northern Kentucky, I think I'd like to live in Fort Mitchell.  I've always said that, and after my brief time there this weekend, I still believe it.  It's a well-kept neighborhood, the homes are beautiful, and there's a feeling of ease and security there.  Aaaahhh.  For the Fort Mitchell Catholics who are already there, the go-to parish is clearly Blessed Sacrament, located at a prime location on Dixie Highway.  If I lived there, however, I sadly report that my parish of choice might not be Blessed Sacrament.

Entering Blessed Sacrament, I noticed a predominantly golden hue to the interior.  Not a bad thing, but upon closer inspection, it isn't gold.  I don't know what it is. There is an odd color scheme to the church and an overall odd decor that didn't win me over.  Six angels lining the the walls of the sanctuary immediately brought to mind the decor of Saint Peter in Chains Cathedral and its hieroglyphic-ish murals - the angels at Blessed Sacrament appear to be part of that same troupe, and the oddities didn't stop there.  Large columns flank the sides of the church, the top of each adorned with an assortment of church symbols . . . as well as X's and O's.  Hugs and kisses?  Tic-tac-toe?  I didn't get it.  The arch of the sanctuary sported what My Husband the Heathen called "caution tape."  I decided it was something more akin to a checker cab. Yellow and black checks.  I didn't get that either. 

Much of the church is a peach color, so I'm still having a hard time determining why everything looked so golden.  I could attribute some of it to an  impressive, although somewhat neon, tabernacle which, in combination with the stars on the domed ceiling behind the altar, creates an appearance of a small city all its own.  Fairly cool.  With some imagination, you could even see the Taj Mahal . . . which it actually may have been . . . given another issue all its own - the celebrating priest.

Standing no more than five feet tall - if that - this gentle man may have grown up in the shadow of the real Taj Mahal - he was Indian.  (Interesting to come across a second Indian priest in Northern Kentucky. What's up with that, Covington?)  Okay. I have no issue with his nationality.  I have no issue with his barely decipherable accented speech - it keeps me on my toes trying to understand what he has to say (although, in all honesty, I missed about half of it).  I do have an issue with his sloooooow, monotone manner of speech.  Ooooooohhhh. Myyyyyyy.  Gooooooddddd.  Soooooooo sloooooowwww.  His leadership in prayer threw the cadence of the whole congregation off.  It was genuinely hard to participate.  Look, I'm sure he's a nice man, a holy man of God, but . . . oh lord, it was painful.  Thankfully, a female soloist saved the day, leading the music with one of the best voices I've heard over the past few years.  Very, very nice.    

Not surprisingly, it was nearly a full house on this Saturday afternoon.  Lots of families. Lots of coming and going.  Lots of late arrivals.  I've always thought of Blessed Sacrament as the St. Ignatius of Northern Kentucky, but the reality of Blessed Sacrament threw me.  This weekend, I found the only real similarity between St. I's and Blessed Sacrament to be the liturgy of the mass, but then again, I guess that's all that really matters.

ATTENDANCE:  Comfortably full

DURATION:  One very long hour.